


Buried

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crypt Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Infidelity, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Part of him wishes he were still in the Vale. It was easier there, perched high in the Eyrie, nothing like the dark cold crypts he's been lead into now – the cold wind so fresh and harsh, Ned felt like it could dry the sin right out of him, this sick black mud of the soul which has engulfed both him and his sister. But in the end, he finds himself back beneath the earth, with her.And Lyanna did always love to play with mud.





	Buried

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt: "Lyanna/Ned, _"So it's fine to fuck your sister, but when she becomes your best friend's betrothed all of sudden it's wrong!"_ (I just want a fic where Ned and Lyanna both know their relationship is wrong, but where Lyanna doesn't care, Ned just keeps trying to look for reasons to stop only to find they're not good enough.)"

“Why are we here, Lyanna?”

“Because I asked you to come, and you agreed. Like I knew you would.” He cannot see the way she smirks in the crypts so dark, but he knows it, and he hopes she cannot see that he is already half-hard with her standing yards away, just from her mere presence, but he knows she knows that as well.

“Robert–”

“Is off hunting, he won't be back for hours yet. Besides, why would he come here?”

_That is not what I meant,_ he thinks as she comes closer, face lit up by dull candlelight, and he can smell her, all rosewater and horse manure. Words fail him, though, and she's grinning as she comes close, close enough to touch. “Really, I ought to have a word with him,” she whispers as she reaches down. “He's been stealing you from me. I've barely seen you for days.”

Ned whimpers as her fingers, the slightest bit too calloused for a proper lady, start to unlace his breeches. “Lya, don't,” he says, but he doesn't try to push her away.

She pauses. “Why not?” she asks, a distinct twang of irritation to her voice.

“Robert–”

She scoffs. “What, it's fine to fuck your sister, but all of a sudden when she's your best friend betrothed it's wrong?”

He flinches. “It's always been wrong,” he says. “I have dishonoured you. I have dishonoured myself. I cannot dishonour him also.”

“You worry too much, sweet Ned,” Lyanna says. _You do not worry enough._ Perhaps they are both right. “I doubt he was so concerned for our honour when he took half the maids in the Vale into his bed.”

_Are you still so angry about the bastard, about little Mya?_ Part of him wishes he were still in the Vale. It was easier there, perched high in the Eyrie, nothing like the dark cold crypts he's been lead into now – the cold wind so fresh and harsh, Ned felt like it could dry the sin right out of him, this sick black mud of the soul which has engulfed both him and his sister. But in the end, he finds himself back beneath the earth, with her.

And Lyanna did always love to play with mud, as a child. He groans as his laces fall away and she wraps her hand around his prick, achingly hard, and she giggles. “It's alright, Ned,” she whispers. “Nobody knows. I promise.”

_I know,_ but it's hard to say such things as she starts to stroke him, ruthlessly practiced. “Lya...” he moans, bucking into her grip, knees starting to give way beneath him. He clutches her shoulder for support, but lets go as soon as he does. She is smaller than him.

Lyanna doesn't seem to mind though, pushing herself closer towards him until her riding leathers rub against his chest, winding her spare arm behind his back. “That's it, Ned,” she whispers. “Hold on to me.”

_Let me go,_ he almost says, but he doesn't mean it. He groans and clings to her back, needy as a maiden, while she coos and whispers sweet nothings in his ear. It doesn't last long before he gasps and spills his seed onto the cold ground, the only living thing in this place of death. It feels like sacrilege.

Lyanna giggles, caressing his face, petting his hair and his pitiful attempt at a beard. “Sweet Ned,” she takes his hand, “follow me.”

And he does, letting her lead him deeper into the crypts, past the Lords of Winterfell and to where the Kings of Winter sit with their swords, and Ned can't help fear the stone, as if these dead kings will come to life and smite them both for disgracing their blood. Lyanna laughed when he told her that. _They're just glorified rocks, Ned,_ she said. _Besides, kings do worse things all the time. Haven't you heard?_

She sits in one of those kings' laps, though thankfully not one Ned can put a name to, perched on his knee for Ned to kneel before her, like Torrhen did before Aegon. _The Targaryens have done this for years, and they're kings. So if they don't have the right to judge us, who in their kingdom does?_

Lyanna is very good at making strong arguments out of dust and rubbish. “That's it Ned, there we are,” she says as her breeches hang from her ankle and she guides his mouth over her centre, all salt and wet and hot. The dragons do this because they believe they are above the gods, that no-one can judge them. The wolves are a smarter beast, who know that they are just that: beasts. They know they are no better than the piercing red eye of the weirwoods. At least, they're meant to.

“Fuck Ned, eat my cunt,” Lyanna groans, pulls his hair, no coy hints or sly innuendoes for her. He grunts and buries himself deeper in her wetness, shivering at how she gasps and moans. Above them, the eyes of winter stare, and Ned cannot make himself break the gaze. He remembered how scandalised he was the first time she brought him here. _We can't,_ he said, although he'd said that a dozen times before and in the end, they always had, _the Lords of Winterfell – Lya, our family–_

_Our family?_ she'd echoed. _Where is Grandma Arya then? Or Aunt Jocelyn? Where is our mother, Ned?_ He'd fallen into the dark with her, as always. _No, only the lords and kings are there Ned. And neither of us will ever be that._

No-one has ever taught Lya better than to tempt fate.

She moans and pulls him close when she peaks, bringing him so close he's almost smothered.

Afterwards, she smiles, and he cannot return it. “We – we should–” because in the end, they can never stay, they go back to the surface and Lya has to smile as Robert dotes his favours upon her and Ned has to smile as Robert teases him for still being a maid at his age, and in the end Ned is left with nothing but his shame, and the painful knowledge that she does not share it.

“Go. I know.” _Yes, go. Far from here, far from these dead man and our name and the weirwoods' eye. Me to the Vale, and you to Storm's End, so far apart we might never see each other again. Mayhaps if we're lucky, no-one will ever see us together._ His heart aches when he thinks that though. That's not what he wants. He looks up at her, and she watches him wistfully. “You always say that, and yet I know you don't want to.” His hand is still clutching her thigh. “Stay or go, stay or go. You know, one day I'll have to do one or the other. I fear no matter what I do, you will not like it.”

For once in her life, she sounds worried. He stares up at her, searching for an answer, but he has none. Then she sighs and smiles again. “But there's no need to fuss about that yet, right? Come on, let's get back up there before we start to rot.” He hesitates, and she chuckles. “Don't worry Ned, I know the way out.”

He follows, but he doubts she does.


End file.
